


Dancing On The Edge

by pasiphile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bloodplay, Bondage, Dildos, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gunplay, M/M, Mindfuck, Multi, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1287034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for prompt: "foursome with Seb, Jim, Sherlock and John. My kink preference would be bloodplay, knifeplay, gunplay and restraints. I would prefer john and Sherlock to be submissive and Seb&jim more dominant"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing On The Edge

He was on his knees, Moran’s hand in his hair, a knife against his throat.

It wasn’t supposed to be hot, probably, feeling a sharp edge press gently against his jugular. And he did want to struggle – not that he could, his arms were restrained, bound together all the way from elbows to wrist – but that didn’t change the fact that his cock was already more than half-hard.

Although  _that_ might also have something to do with the sight of Sherlock. Draped over Moriarty’s lap, wrists held together in a painful-looking grip, while he…

He should look away, probably, give Sherlock some privacy, but he just  _couldn’t_.

“Enjoying the view?” Moran asked, conversationally, as if he wasn’t holding a knife to John’s throat. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

Sherlock whimpered, his hips making small rocking movements. Moriarty was still slowly working a dildo in and out of him, with a patience that made it look like he could keep that up for  _days_.

John squirmed. Moran’s hand tightened in his hair, pulling his head further back. “Shush. Your turn will come, you know.”

Moriarty glanced up from Sherlock’s arse. “Someone getting impatient?” he asked. He sounded calm, cheerful, upbeat, while Sherlock –

John rolled his shoulders back, about the only thing he could still do without risking having his throat slit.

Moriarty looked over John’s shoulder at Moran, gave a short nod, and then turned his attention back to Sherlock. “Sorry, honey,” he crooned, “Neglecting you, am I?” The next push of the dildo came a lot more aggressive than the ones before. Sherlock groaned and his fingers twitched in Moriarty’s grip.

Moran let go of John’s hair, although he kept the knife against John’s throat. His free hand came up around his chest and then slid down slowly.

Damn. He tilted his hips, more instinct than conscious thought, as Moran’s hand reached his cock. He squeezed and then slowly, incrementally started to slide down. John’s toes curled, and if had been a little less proud this would have probably been the point where he’d start begging.

Another loud groan made him look back at Sherlock. Moriarty had finally picked up his tortuously slow pace, fucking Sherlock deep and quick. John shivered in sympathy.

Moriarty slowed down again, accompanied by Sherlock’s moans, and with one final twist of his wrist he pushed the dildo deep inside, until all that was visible was the base, a perfect little silver circle nestled between Sherlock’s arse cheeks.

Moriarty hauled Sherlock off his lap and onto his side on the bed. He was breathing heavily, hair messy with sweat, eyes dark. A bit like when he had been high, only less… focused.

“Sherlock,” John snapped.

Sherlock’s eyes found his and he gave John a small smile. “No need to worry,” he said, voice hoarse and breathy.

“We’ll see if you can still say that later,” Moriarty said, looking at Sherlock like he was seriously considering eating him up.

John felt a sudden wave of protectiveness. He pulled against Moran’s hold, struggling a little – not that he really expected to get to Sherlock, but…

Moriarty looked up immediately, eyes focusing on John.

John swallowed. Moriarty looking at him like that was… well, a bit like whenever Sherlock really looked at him, that same feeling of being stripped to the bone and minutely examined. But while Sherlock’s eyes had always contained some hint of kindness, even at his most arseholish, Moriarty’s eyes were completely devoid of any feeling at all.

“Do you  _worry_ , Doctor Watson?” Moriarty asked, softly. “Do you think I might _harm_  him?”

John’s lips went thin. Moran’s arm tightened around his waist, as if he was expecting John to pounce on Moriarty in fury.

“Well, you’re right,” Moriarty said, suddenly cheerful, and before anyone could react he had snatched the gun from the bedside table and put it against Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, breath hitching.

Moriarty gently caressed Sherlock’s jaw with the muzzle.

John was shaking. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone being held at gunpoint, and it was bringing back all the worst kind of memories. Just one gentle nudge against the trigger and…

“Look at him,” Moran said, softly, from behind him.

“What do you  _think_ I’m doing,” John snapped.

“No, I mean,  _look_ at him.” Moran took his jaw and tilted his head a little to the right and –  _oh_.

Sherlock was rock-hard, trembling slightly. And as if to confirm John’s thought Sherlock chose that precise moment to moan.

Moran chuckled. “We’re all weirdos here, Captain. Don’t pretend to be above it all.”

Moriarty was still crouching over Sherlock, looking like some kind of demon sucking the soul out of him. The muzzle of the gun slowly traced patterns over his throat, his jaw. Sherlock made a noise again, eyes half-closed, mouth opened a little.

Moriarty nudged the gun against Sherlock’s mouth, forcing him to open up further, and then he slipped the muzzle between Sherlock’s lips.

John twitched again, but Sherlock’s eyes closed completely, cheeks hollowing out around the gun. It looked – obscene, and wrong, and incredibly dangerous.

And hot, because obviously something was just wired  _wrong_ in John’s brain.

“Jim,” Moran said softly.

Moriarty didn’t react. He hovered over Sherlock’s face, with a disturbingly hungry look on his face. His trigger finger moved.

“ _Jim_ ,” Moran said again, this time a little louder.

Moriarty blinked and sat back up again, pulling the gun from Sherlock’s mouth. “Spoilsport,” he said, with a dirty look at Moran, but he did lean over and put the gun back on the bedside table.

“Just pointing out that you can’t play with him anymore if his brains are spread out on the ceiling,” Moran said, sounding wryly amused.

“Hmm, point taken. Well,  _he_ looks like he could do with a break,” Moriarty said, with a derisive look at Sherlock, who was watching them all carefully but did indeed look a little dazed. “So I’ll need something else to occupy myself with.”

And again he turned to John, pinning him down with those bottomless eyes.

John swallowed. Moran’s arm went around his chest, holding him down. “Where do you want him?” Moran asked.

“Back,” Moriarty said, still eyeing up John.

Moran hauled him around. He was being surprisingly careful, making sure John’s bound arms didn’t get twisted or trapped. Or maybe not so surprisingly – not even a fucked-up psychopath like Moriarty would consider a broken arm sexy, would he?

He ended up pretty much parallel to Sherlock, once again leaning back against Moran. Moriarty straddled his thighs, took his jaw and leaned in close.

John breathed in deeply. It didn’t make sense,  _nothing_ about this made sense. This was a man who had tried to blow him up, who was a confirmed murderer, a terrorist, without any redeeming qualities -

And John wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

_we’re all weirdos here_

Moriarty closed the distance, tongue parting John’s lips. He was still holding John’s head with both hands, angling John’s head the way he wanted it. It felt less like a kiss and more like being used, examined.

He kissed his way down John’s jaw, to his throat, dragging his tongue hard over John’s jugular. He winced, closed his eyes. It would be easy enough to try to imagine this was someone else doing it, but… Well. The fact that it was  _Moriarty_ was sort of the point of this, wasn’t it?

Moriarty reached behind John for something, mouth still on John’s neck. A gasp – not his, or Moran’s –  _Sherlock_.

He opened his eyes. Moriarty pulled back and held up a thin surgical scalpel; almost identical to the one John kept in his doctor’s bag.

“What, you didn’t know?” Moriarty asked softly. Still looking at John, but that was meant for Sherlock, wasn’t it? “That the good doctor here is a masochist? Didn’t look beyond  _adrenaline junkie_ , did you?” He cocked his head and smirked. “Addicted to danger,” he drawled, and put the tip of the scalpel just below John’s jaw.

So  _that_  was why Sherlock had been so excited with the gun. John’s entire body was screaming at the danger but somehow it all got mixed up and he ended up feeling like every nerve ending was suddenly ten times more sensitive, registering even the slightest of movements.

Moriarty slowly dragged the scalpel down. He didn’t press hard enough to break the skin, it didn’t even hurt, and still it felt like John’s entire consciousness was focused on that one sharp point.

He did press down when he reached John’s chest, leaving behind a sudden warm pain, a thin red line. Moran’s hands gripped his shoulders, holding him still. “Don’t struggle too much,” Moran said, “otherwise things might get a bit messy.”

He gave a hurried nod, eyes glued to scalpel. It was tracing down again, just not hard enough to break the skin but John would have almost preferred that, instead of this over-sensitive feeling.

The tip of the scalpel dug in again when it reached his stomach, drawing a long line to his hip. Going deeper than before, and it  _hurt_ , John squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in sharply through his nose, struggling to keep control.

“Good,” Moriarty said, softly, “isn’t it?”

And dear fucking god he was right. The only other times when he had felt this  _alive_ had been on the battlefield, with adrenaline coursing through his veins and constant danger looming over him and he’d laughed, half-mad with the glorious threat of it.

And now this.

The pressure disappeared. John blinked, disoriented. Moriarty had raised the scalpel and was once again looking straight at John, with that unnerving laser-intensity.

He slowly moved his hand lower, and lower, and –

No. He wouldn’t, not even Moriarty wouldn’t, not with Sherlock that close. But that didn’t change the fact that the sharp side of the scalpel was less than an inch away from his balls and Moriarty was grinning at him and panic tore at him with desperate fingers, and  _still_ his cock was rock-hard.

He leaned his head back, breathing hard. Moran was holding him tight, and he could  _feel_ Sherlock watching him, and then –

 _Pain_. He blinked, rapidly, looking down with growing dread, but…

No, it was fine. Just a long bleeding line on the inside of his thigh, which stung like buggery – hah, how appropriate – but at least he wasn’t castrated.

Moriarty laughed. “Your  _face_ , you should have seen yourself.”

“Bastard,” John growled, but inside he was singing, crowing in triumph, at the thrill of feeling. “You evil sadistic  _prick_.”

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Well, yes. Bit slow on the uptake, are you?” He leaned forward and licked over the cut on John’s chest. John shuddered in not-quite-disgust.

“You like playing on the edge,” Moriarty said, straightening up. He grasped John’s jaw and forced him to look at him. “Don’t deny it, we all know it. So  _this_ , doctor, is exactly what you’ve been looking for.” He leaned in and pressed his mouth against John’s. John tried to turn away instinctively but Moriarty wouldn’t let him, kept kissing him, tongue stroking his lips and pushing inside.

He pulled off again and wiped his thumb over his mouth, looking contemplative.

“We’ve still got our bit on the side, you know,” Moran said from behind him. He bent his head and grazed his teeth carefully over John’s throat.

“Good point.” Moriarty reached over and hauled Sherlock in. He wasn’t tied down like John was. He was basically free to do what he wanted and yet he let Moriarty order him around, hold him down, whatever he wanted.

It didn't make  _sense._

Moriarty took Sherlock’s hand and pulled it to John’s cock. John gasped at the touch – nevermind the fact that he had been hard for too long and was begging for relief, it was more that this was  _Sherlock_ , Sherlock’s fingers, slightly hesitant and warm and long and  _his_.

Although Moriarty was still holding Sherlock’s hand, directing his movements. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered, as long as he…

But then, of course, Moriarty snatched Sherlock’s hand away again. He took a handful of Sherlock’s hair and yanked it, pulling him in. He pushed Sherlock’s head down to John’s crotch, no words needed to understand what it was he wanted.

John looked down. He was still panting, couldn’t stop. Sherlock met his eyes and gave him a small smile, and then he looked down and licked his lips and –

John’s head fell back again at the wet warmth of Sherlock’s mouth. Someone’s hand – who, Moriarty? No, too far, Moran then – closed around his throat, just hard enough to slightly impede his breathing. Together with the rope around his arms it made him feel incredibly  _trapped_ , helpless, but as long as Sherlock was there it was fine.

Sherlock, who didn’t really seem to know what he was doing. He tried things, of course, he was still  _Sherlock_ , but he kept going too fast or too slow, too hard once or twice, making John wince or curse, and then far too soft.

He looked up. Moriarty was smirking at him. On purpose, of course, he must have known.

John shook his head, too dazed to think properly. If only…

Sherlock had stopped. John looked down at him in confusion, and then up, and  _oh_.

Moriarty had taken the dildo and was again slowly fucking Sherlock with it. Sherlock’s eyes were shut tightly, his fingers cramped and curled in the sheets.

“You,” Moriarty said to Sherlock, still calm, “are going to watch. Since you obviously can’t do the job yourself. Sebastian?”

John was pulled backwards and turned around, so he was on his knees, arse in the air, face on the mattress, straight in Sherlock’s line of vision. It should have been embarrassing, being presented and arranged like that, but he’d long passed the stage of embarrassment.

The cut on the inside of his thigh was burning. In the sudden silence he could hear the occasional slight drop as his blood hit the sheets.

The bed shifted. Moran, coming up behind him. His hands – large, warm – on his arse, and then something cold.

Sherlock was looking at him like… No, there was simply nothing he could compare it to. He’d never seen that kind of focused desperate  _heat_  in Sherlock’s eyes. And then there were the noises he was making, the occasional slight sigh or moan as a result of Moriarty’s work.

Two fingers pressed slowly inside of him. He tried to relax into it, even though it felt invasive, strange.

“I could get you to fuck him,” Moriarty said, suddenly, to Sherlock. “Wouldn’t you like that? Do what Seb’s doing,  _taking_ your good friend, pound him into the mattress, make him  _moan_?”

“Is that supp- supposed to make me  _beg_?” Sherlock gasped. “You’re going to put a bit more effort in it than that, you sound like a run-of-the-mill internet sex ad.”

John almost laughed. God, it was a relief to hear Sherlock being his usual sarcastic self again. Even though he sounded breathless and hoarse, it was still  _him_.

Moran chuckled. “Well, he does have a point, Jim. I don’t think words are going to do it.” He angled his fingers down, dragging his fingertips over John’s prostate. John cursed and dug his feet into the mattress, desperate for something to hold on to.

“Hmm, maybe not. Want to play swapsies?”

“Sure.” Moran pulled his fingers out and there was another sound, a snap – gloves, he’d been wearing latex gloves, how considerate of him.

John was starting to shake with need. All he needed were a few good strokes, or someone’s mouth, or  _anything_. Not that he would get that from Moriarty.

Moriarty left Sherlock where he was and moved to John’s side, not doing anything yet. John rolled onto his side and up again, sitting up on his knees, eyes on Sherlock. Moran got over to where Sherlock was still lying and pulled the dildo out in one rough movement. “Condom?”

Moriarty reached to the bedside table and lobbed on at Moran, who caught it neatly. He rolled it on and grabbed Sherlock’s hips, pulling him close.

Sherlock was going to get fucked. By Moran. And he wasn’t even protesting, the opposite, leaning on his hands and pressing back when Moran pushed inside of him.

John turned his head and found Moriarty staring at him again. He smiled, slowly, when he saw John looking. “Oh dear,” he said, pulling a sympathetic face. “So much for seeing your Sherlock as a paragon of virtue. I don’t think he’s going to protest, do you?”

John looked back at Sherlock. Moran had taken his cock, pumping his fist up and down, and Sherlock was writhing against it, wanton and desperate.

Never, not in a million years, had he thought he’d ever see Sherlock Holmes like that.

Moriarty put his hand on John’s chest and pushed, toppling him backwards. He crawled over John and dipped his head down, biting down briefly at the junction of his neck and shoulder, and then moving down. His tongue dragged hard over the cut on his chest, a strange mostly-pleasurable burn of pain. He moved down further, finding the cut on his stomach, ignoring John’s squirming, and even further. His mouth closed around John’s cock.

Unlike Sherlock, Moriarty  _was_ good at this. He closed his hand around the base of John’s cock and sucked hard, tonguing at the head. His other hand was gently stroking the cut on John’s thigh. Within seconds John was shivering with approaching orgasm.

He was distantly aware of a grunt, a cry somewhere near – Sherlock and Moran, finishing. Moriarty briefly stopped what he was doing, keeping him on edge. John strained against the rope, more out of instinct than anything else.

Someone’s hand touched his chest, a mouth pressed against his, hard and demanding. Not Sherlock. Moran, then. John got pulled up again and someone leaned against his back, another mouth on his throat – Sherlock, had to be, he recognised his arm around John’s chest, and he was losing control, couldn’t think anymore, could just feel.

And then, at-fucking-last, he came. Only Moriarty scratched his nails hard over the cut on his thigh just at the moment of orgasm and John screamed, half-muffled by Moran’s mouth.

He collapsed. Someone was pulling at the rope, releasing him. His shoulders were burning.

He blinked and tried to take in the scene, make sense of what he saw. Moriarty was wiping at his mouth. Moran was leisurely licking his hand clean. Did he – was that  _Sherlock’s_ …

He shook his head. His arms were suddenly free. “We’ll need bandages here,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, bathroom. I’ll get them.” Moran.

How could they all sound so, so  _calm_ about this?

Moriarty slid off the bed, stretching lazily, and padded out of the room. His cock was flaccid, but he’d been hard before, hadn’t he? So…

“Moran gave him a – what do you call it again? Ah yes,  _handjob_ , while he was kissing you,” Sherlock said, once again reading John’s mind. “He’s a multitasker, apparently. Are you alright?”

“Not… not really, actually. But I’ll survive. Are you – ”

“Yes, fine.”

John leaned up. Sherlock was looking at the gun on the bedside table, eyes thoughtful.

A thud. John blinked – first aid kit, thrown in front of them. Moran pointed at it. “That should do it. And then I suggest you bugger off before Jim declares the amnesty is off and he gets homicidal.” He winked at John and left the room, going after Moriarty.

Sherlock pulled the first aid kit closer and got out a few disinfectant wipes. “Nothing too serious, they’ve already stopped bleeding,” he said, calmly.

“Sherlock…”

“Yes?” he said, rifling through the bandages.

“What the hell just happened?”

Sherlock looked up, smiling slightly. “Something very,  _very_ dangerous.”

“Right.” John grinned, slowly. “That was…”

“Fantastic?”

“Brilliant,” he agreed.

And they both burst out in loud, raucous laughter.


End file.
